expiration date
by Bambeptin
Summary: "We're supposed to be friends." (An exploration of Knight and Six's pre- and post-Event relationship, up until Knight went sour.)


His new partner's _childish_.

The word sounds so odd sitting at the back of his mind; "childish" was not a common word when you were hired to dispose of other folk's enemies. Childish was a word for parents with children they couldn't understand, describing teenagers who still haven't quite gotten full control over new and unfamiliar emotions, or perhaps an undesirable adult still clinging to their younger years as if it could restore their innocence.

There was a fine line between amiability and childishness.

A mercenary that was _amiable_ could manipulate 'new friends' and could gather powerful allies.

A mercenary that was _childish_ was dead weight, and most of the time, straight-up dead.

He likes to think that he's friendly and approachable

He also thinks about how the green combat-suited man swaggered into the soundproofed office of his employer, flirting with not only the secretary, the butler, two separate maids, the employer, but also himself.

Normally he would say that the other flirted with everyone he set eyes on, but those sunglasses were practically opaque. Could've been looking at anything.

"Aren't those a little, you know. Impractical?" the blonde asked, but it was hardly a question — more of a blunt statement.

His hand raised to tug them off (an odd thought crossed his mind - what if he was the victim of a horrible superglue incident and those were stuck on?), maybe he forgot to take them off when he came in —

Movement that his eyes couldn't follow, a flash of searing pain; another hand wraps around his extended forearm and twists it down.

A huge force connects to his stomach and for a moment he felt as though he was **drowning** —

And in seconds it was over.

His partner is standing in the same pose, same place, but now was facing his crumpled form.

All eyes were on them.

His newest employer, some man with hair that resembled a roadkilled skunk and a mask with gaunt features, turned to the sunglasses-clad man then to the blonde. The mask betrayed no emotion, permanently etched with half-closed eyelids and an unamused scowl across its face.

Silence. Everyone except for he and his partner seem to be holding their breaths. His own breath was jagged, disbelieving. A hand slides to his ribs, and he winces as a jolt of pain runs through him — there would be a bruise tomorrow for sure.

"Now, now, _children_ ," the skunk drawls, and raises his hands in mock concern, "We can't have our _esteemed_ guests punch themselves silly before the party, can we? Liven up, you two."

A wave, and another servant carried a briefcase into the room. Not that he noticed — he was dazed, and the room seemed to be spinning around his - his **partner** (he spat the designation) - and the act of getting back to his feet and trying to reclaim his dignity was disgustingly difficult.

The briefcase opened.

"Sticking with the clichés. First time hiring?" it sounded like the bland voice belonged to another person, not the Casanova wannabe that waltzed into the room. His gaze drifted to the piles of money inside and his eyebrows crept upwards just a smidge, "You _really_ want this kid dead."

"Make it look like a _truly_ unfortunate accident, and I'll triple it. I'll even invite you to the funeral, if you want."

A vicious smile sliced onto his new partner's face, predatory. There's too many teeth showing.

Normally all the money in the world couldn't convince him to accept a job with an unknown, (possible, _probable_ ) liability.

But — he _needs_ it. He really needs the funds, and if that meant accepting a job fit for only two people when he was a lone wolf —

He never was the best at adapting, but he could try.

* * *

There were few bumps in the road, and fewer cars. The infrequent streaks of another vehicle's headlights were interspaced with the stark coldness of the sun fading below the horizon.

It would be lonely, if it wasn't for the unwelcome passenger right next to him.

Instead, he felt righteousness and the beginnings of competition stirring. They couldn't look each other in the eye after the incident, much less coordinate a well-planned strike.

The mission was doomed to disaster the moment skunk-hair hired some impudent amateur assassin.

He silently compared it to two baseball players deciding to become neurosurgeons overnight — quite a few smashed heads and too much blood to be considered a clean hit.

His knuckles were white from gripping the wheel, he realized with faint surprise. He didn't even notice how his nails dug into the palms of his hands and sweat was building on skin.

If this path continued, the next thing to turn white would be his hair.

The grip loosened. The sweat was what bothered him the most; he was suppose to keep his cool, crack jokes, assert dominance, and leave a few thousand dollar richer — instead his body betrayed him and would make his aim shaky.

The forest around the two blurred into an unrecognizable mass of greens and yellows, later dark blues when the sun finally disappeared into the distance. Faint lights glimmered behind them as they both drove farther and farther away from proper civilization and closer to the forest facility. The lights were mixed in with the stars speckled across the darkened sky, like a whole city was thrown into the heavens.

The poetic mess of his current situation could wait, though. His limbs were getting stiff, his fingers itched to do something — _anything_ — other than mindlessly hold the steering wheel. He was a man of action. He should be looking over his freshly-modified-and-stolen gun for faults, or scanning the blueprints to the large scientific facility they would be accelerating an accident at.

(He didn't ask why the skunk wanted some child quietly killed; a nosy mercenary was as dead as a childish one. All the blonde needed to know was that they were having a masquerade ball to celebrate something-or-other, and the kid would most likely get bored of the adults and wander off —

Though, to himself, he did wonder why a kid was there in the first place)

He needed to loosen up before he accidentally ripped the steering wheel out of the van. Never tried to, but he praised himself for his strong build and tall height — ripping out a piece of plastic and metal would be child's play.

"So, then," there's obvious hesitation in his voice, born of being unsure of how to approach his partner when there was mutual dislike, "What's — _wait,_ what's your _name_?"

The fact that he didn't even know the other's name is a shock, and briefly leaves him confused. His perception _obviously_ needed some improving.

His reply is a long silence, and be wonders to himself if his partner just fell asleep due to tiredness or laziness. Again, he curses those shades — he has no idea if the brunette's eyes are opened or closed.

Right before he gives up on ever getting an answer, his partner turns his head. Somehow he can feel the gaze and scrutiny of a hungry predator through the sunglasses — that, or his own boredom was getting to him.

The van was air-conditioned, and the cold night air was kept out, yet he couldn't stop himself from shivering anyways. The new moon is out and the absence of moonlight created eerie shadows from the van's headlights.

Without giving an answer, his partner turns to look outside the window back.

So he was going to play that game, then? Fine!

Who even needed names to succeed in working together?

Ha. Haha.

That laugh was much more bitter than he expected.

Lights from the facility crept ever-closer, bright as if it wasn't an ungodly hour of the night. He planned for this, of course. He planned for everything — well, mostly everything, he checks up on his passenger before setting his eyes on the road. The masquerade celebration would be in full swing, and by now everyone who could get smashed _was_ smashed —

No kid liked the acrid reek of alcohol. That was wisdom from experience.

Maybe he should ask his partner to check if there were any other weaknesses in the building that he missed, or to look over the profiles of the scientists working there.

Nanobot researchers, he listed off, almost mechanically. He inwardly let out a condensing huff. More like a scam to swindle governments with empty promises of a "raised quality of life for everyone*", with a silent "*everyone is defined as: the rich or people with connections".

Some may describe the blonde as a pessimist, but he liked to call it being blunt with the facts. Maybe that was why his wife filed a divorce and got ownership of their son. Or maybe it was because his money was earned through more blood than sweat.

He had a nagging feeling that it was the latter.

He flicked the headlights off — soon he would be driving off-road and parking the van into the forest, and slinking towards the nanobot research facility with two modified pistols held in his hands. With an enigmatic mercenary in tow.

His thoughts wandered to possibly striking up a 'friendly' competition with him — see how many scientists they can knock out without anyone noticing, perhaps? First person to locate and reach their mark? Most accident-like accident? Ah, scratch the last one. Two filing cabinets falling on a dead body after it tearjerkingly fell into a vat of acid would be a little suspect.

His brain was buzzing with activity, the most in many months — not that he would let the mix of worry, excitement, and anger slip into his face, no, but from the corner of his eye he could've sworn that green mercenary glanced at him with the beginnings of (pity? concern? disgust?) _an emotion_ on his face.

Whatever it was, his mouth immediately pressed into a thin line and he looked away again. Typical.

For a lesser man, maybe lesser mercenaries, the switch between vicious man-child and brick wall (and...whatever _that_ was) could have been a cause for concern.

He was no mere mercenary.

(Maybe his partner wasn't either)

Even _if_ his greatest weakness was the inability to adapt quickly. If something worked, then it _worked_ — from assassination techniques to technology, that was his motto.

And that's why he still hand-blended food. Blenders were _creepy_. All those scraps clinging onto sharpened blades as they spun and turned something — or some _one_ — info a fine paste —

The steering wheel was being clung to, hard. Concerning. Time was ticking away — if he concentrated, he could almost _feel_ the weight of his pistols in his hands, phantom trigger ghosting over his index finger, feet soundlessly leading him towards a clean kill, and financial stability for the upcoming year until the cycle began anew.

For once, he let his mind wander. He could indulge in some unprofessional activity once in a while, he said to himself. Apathy, anticipation, anxiety. They flickered from the van, his gun, the light of the stars, the mission, and finally they looped back to his partner.

In a later chapter of his life, he would blame the conversation on sleep deprivation despite feeling completely awake at the moment.

"I've got it!" and the sound jolts the sunglasses-clad man from half-asleep to all awake. The brunette's eyebrows are scrunched up and his hands move automatically to a defensive position.

He could work with this.

Hopefully.

"You're one of those — those clam people."

"...clam people."

Good, he was listening.

"Hard exterior with a pearl hidden inside," he lifts his right arm off of the steering wheel and playfully (maybe a _little_ forcefully) nudges him, "Just like a clam."

"Those are oysters, first of all, and many oysters are not in the correct conditions to produce a pearl," it's spoken blandly, like he couldn't care less about the smalltalk, but there's faint amusement laced between his words.

"But they're formed by, uh, something to do with sand and pressure, right? You're a mercenary — don't tell me that you haven't had some sort of _dark and troubled past._ "

Silence between the two. The only noise was the soft rumble of the vehicle's engine.

An unspoken sentence hung in the air, "(You/I) went too far. (Don't try/Ask later)."

Well, that sure _clammed_ him up.

Slowly, he retracts the hand on his partner's shoulder.

Still, be couldn't deny it — some progress was made from his overly large charisma. The conversation fades into the back of his mind as the assassination plan becomes increasingly relevant.

The lights come closer still. The research facility looks more like a castle with an observatory slapped onto the side, not the forefront to nanotechnology. On the other side of the hilll, more lights flicker off and gives the sense of shadows consuming the land — they would be driving around the village, though, missing any pesky eyewitnesses.

"Six," and tires screech as the van swerves in his surprise.

"Excuse me?"

"My name. It's Six."

He doesn't know if he's joking or not, but the stoic expression on his partner's face dashes away any disrespectful remarks.

Still, if his partner was going to give a nickname then he was, too.

In his mind, an image forms — a holy protector on a noble white steed with armour so polished it was _glowing_. The visor is down and an aura of confidence oozes out from the armour, almost protection in itself.

It's _him_ , he realizes, or at least who he strives to be.

So what if the armour was stained with slick, shining, still-fresh blood? That his sword was too ready, and his smile was too wide? It changed _nothing._

He was _still_ —

"Knight. My name's Knight.'


End file.
